Epidemiology
by DarkGidora
Summary: She had come down with a bug, she'd be fine. He made it off the island, that's the end of it, right? Short stories examining individual downward spirals during the Manhattan Island Outbreak.
1. Failed Anatomy

Disclaimer: Prototype is the property of Activision Blizzard.

Summary: She had come down with a bug. It wasn't major, certainly not the one making the news. She'd be fine, right?

* * *

She had come done with a bug.

Must've been the stomach flu; that passed between people like wildfire. She felt light headedness and an undulating discomfort, running from her throat down to her guts. Running a fever. Her phone rang. She got to her feet, ignoring the aching in her back. Her feet ached; walking the stairs of the Gardner building sucked. The cheapskate management had to get the elevator fixed, yesterday.

Stepping over to the counter, she picked up the vintage Nokia brick where it lay plugged into the wall. Checked the caller ID, "Bossman". She made sure to add a little extra strain to her voice as she answered it, not that she needed it. She sounded as shitty as she felt. "Look, Brad, I know I'm supposed to be on today, but I feel fucking terrible."

"You skip out early yesterday, and you don't even bother to call in today? We're, uh, down people as is." It had started yesterday, light headedness and the beginnings of a backache. Business was slow, not surprising given current events. Probably weren't any customers there. But the imperious fucking day manager had to get it off by lording over his food service peons.

"I'm really sick."

"Then why didn't you call in when you were supposed to start?"

"Too busy."

"Doing what?" Wrong thing to say. You weren't supposed to be too busy. You could never be too busy for the diner. The diner was life, hope, and spiritual fulfillment. Or, at least that's what Brad seemed to think. "What's so important that you couldn't pick up the phone and..."

"Puking my guts out." That was a lie. Despite the nausea and chills, nothing had come up. Still, it felt like any minute now she was going to puke, or otherwise empty the contents of her digestive tract. Close enough to the truth. "Really think the diners would appreciate that with their meal?"

There was a pause on the other end. She coughed. Finally, Brad grumbled "Look, just _call_ next time. That said, I don't think we'll be open tomorrow. Too many people taking off, and not enough customers."

Feeling slightly vindicated that she had called it in regards to the how business was going, she said "Okay. Bye, boss."

Brad's reply was just a perfunctory "Get well soon."

She clicked the END button with her thumb and set the phone back on the counter. She had debated taking off work when she woke up way too early with a sore throat and headache. The job sucked and she could afford to miss the day, but for some reason she just wanted to get out there and be with people, coworkers, customers, random people in between her apartment and work. A look in the bathroom mirror, with her skin pale and sweaty, disabused her of that notion.

If she showed up, she'd get chewed out for coming in sick when the Health Department was breathing down their necks and they had so many notes from last inspection. But, Health Inspectors be damned, if she stayed home, regardless of whether or not she called in, she'd be chewed out for not showing up and leaving a gap in the ranks.

So she decided to stay home. Gave her an opportunity to get some housework done. She picked up the phone again and glanced at the clock. It was nine. Wait, nine? She woke up some time after four, couldn't sleep at all past that as something was scratching around behind the walls; had to remember to complaint to management about rats. She was supposed to be at work at eight. Where did those four hours go? Wait... five. She got up, got dressed, saw she looked terrible, decided to stay home, called Brad... no, Brad called her.

She got up, got dressed, decided to stay home, and sat. Sat until Brad called. She glanced at the chair she had been sitting in. A magazine was lying on it the armrest. She stumbled back from the counter to the chair, on the "far side" of her cramped combined living room/kitchen/dining room. She felt light-headed and listless, and flopped on her chair, inadvertently dumping the magazine to the floor. She really did need to get to cleaning. Where to start?

She couldn't focus. She had a lot to do, actually, and couldn't decide what to start on. The skittering reached her ears again. She rapped on the wall behind her, hoping to at least startle whatever was behind it, but it kept on going steady. If she wasn't going to scare it off, she decided to at least drown out the noise. On the opposite side of the room, an old, second hand CRT TV sat atop bookshelf. Pirated the cable, everything came in fuzzy and weird, but it beat paying the ridiculous amount the building management charged. And, at least the sound came in okay. She fumbled around, trying to reach the remote for the television, and almost fumbled it.

She turned it on. News. A talking head, generic blonde woman, repeating the same thing that the talking heads had been repeating for the two days. Helicopter shot of Madison Square Garden, like showing the building _above_ Penn Station would in any way clarify what happened _in_ Penn Station. Archive footage of the actual Penn Station… mid-nineties, maybe? A twinge ran through her guts when the talking head mentioned "Bioterrorism".

Could it be? She _was_ feeling ill. The unsettling in her stomach and headache, and backache, and everythingache. No. It _couldn't_ be that, she assured herself. She was nowhere near Penn Station, and according to the news reports, people had been dropping like flies there; if she got whatever was released there, she wouldn't be sick. She'd be dead. She was fine. Stomach flu. Just stomach flu.

She wasn't _doomed_.

Fuck it. She sighed and forced herself to stand, itching her right wrist as she did. She was fine, just under the weather, that was all. Worrying herself over the news wasn't going to help. Hell, the thrust of the newscast was "please remain calm". She just had to get her mind off things, do some chores that'd been piling up. Laundry basket was full.

She had left it next to the door, because she wasn't feeling good when she cleaned it last night and didn't feel like folding and putting it in drawers. No… she meant to wash it last night, left it because she didn't feel like going down to the washers and dryers with the elevators out. She picked up a shirt and looked it over, her eyes unfocusing. Clean. Probably. She dropped it into the basket, then, back protesting all the way, and carried the whole thing to her bedroom.

She half-set, half-dumped the basket on her bed and got to work folding. Her hands shook, and it was hard to remember her way of doing things. It was frustrating, going over the same shirt five different times and ending up with a crumpled ball of cloth. She finally let out an exasperated "Fuck!" and quit when she got her thumb caught in a belt loop of a pair of jeans and ripped the denim.

Wiping the sweat from her brow with the back of her hand, she returned to the living room. She felt their headache when they decided to turn to their man on the street, Joe Anderson. Joe was doing what he always did; state the obvious and gesticulate towards what he was talking about. In this case, Joe was waving his arm at a troop of gunmen in drab camouflage. Apparently Marines were being deployed all over the Island, and more details would be forthcoming. Back to the studio. Graphics department had a field day; Manhattan and biohazard symbols.

Yep, that was about enough of that. She flipped the channel. Other news, other talking head, same story. Same stock footage. Ticker on the bottom of the screen mentioned the Knicks. Talking head discussing the need to report any unusual illness or sights to the authorities. She just had the stomach flu. Nothing major. No need to call it in.

The skittering at the walls grew louder.

The footage shifted to a shot of a man in a military dress uniform standing before a podium, American and New York State Flags on either side of him. No need to panic, quarantine only precautionary. The Marines had the situation well in hand, and would be turning control of the situation over the CDC. Your government would appreciate your cooperation, citizens. Q&A cut short after a blanket denial of reports of "monsters". Make sure to contact your doctor if you're feeling unwell. Fake smile, another fancy graphic.

While that was going on, she had begun to dust. And promptly began hacking and coughing when she cleared off the top of the bookshelf, she mainly used to pile up all the random crap she accumulated, like the TV. She ended up knocking over her collection of empty bottles, which she resolved to return for the deposit once she finally had enough to make it worth the trip. Picture of her and her parents went to the floor, causing her to wince at the crunching noise.

She picked it up, staring at the spiderweb of cracks running from her outward. She moved to set it back on the bookshelf and missed, dropping it to the floor again. Fuck. Frustration had passed, she was getting pissed off. She wasn't exactly graceful, but she was trashing her apartment like a rockstar on a bender, and all she was on was some Tylenol that hadn't worked.

A spasm hit every muscle in her abdomen at once and she groaned, feeling bile rise in her throat before inexplicably sinking back down. This news was starting to bug her. Same shit. She didn't need to be reminded of bioterror. She was fine. Just nausea, something intestinal, and some aches. Didn't need to see the same file photograph of the chief suspect and his sister, who was a person of interest.

Forgetting her dusting, she went to her chair and fumbled for the remote. Where'd she put it? Oh wait, she left it on the counter. Flipped the channel. Cartoons. Elmer wasn't dressed with the stupid hat… looked like it was in the burbs, not the woods. Elmer talking about making rabbit stew. Bug was going to make Elmer look like a dumbass, obviously. Foregone conclusion. Flipped the channel. Cooking program.

She wasn't hungry. Not particularly. But seeing Chef Whatsername and a cut of some type of meat made her forget the roiling chaos from her throat downwards. She hadn't eaten at all that day. Her back and head protesting all the way, she got up from the bed and drunkenly went to the kitchen while the Chef talked about the value of tenderizing.

She wanted some meat. Really, wanted meat. But it was all frozen aside from some capicola in the fridge. She was hungry now. So, sandwich and a side. She rummaged through the cupboard, eventually retrieving a box of macaroni and cheese. How much milk did she need? She blinked repeatedly, the instructions dancing before her eyes. She rubbed them, felt like she had been staring at a monitor for way too long.

Pulling her hands away, she saw the underside of her right forearm had a mottled pink rash on it, running from the wrist up halfway to the elbow. Might've been a bugbite or something.

She went to the sink, poured water in a pot, and set it on the stove. Dumped the noodles in. Retrieved a measuring cup, put her best estimate of how much milk and butter she needed in, and got to work making a sandwich. Got the capicola out, dug up some bread, paused for a while…

She was startled by a knock at the door. She rushed over, and pulled it open about a half-foot. One of her neighbors. Short latino guy. "Uh, hi… um…"

"Jim" he replied. Jim. That was his name. It wasn't like she hadn't been on the same floor of the building with him for months. Hard to remember three letters. Fuck her memory was shot.

She had a hard time reading his expression. Concern maybe? "Can I… can I, um… help you?"

"You smell something burning?" Jim asked, craning his neck to glance over her shoulder. She turned to see black smoke pouring from the pot on the stove.

Several half-articulate swears, a staggering, lurching dash, and the sizzling of tapwater hitting extremely hot metal later, the situation was resolved. She must've zoned out for a while, the water she had set to boil had gone completely and the noodles had burned in the pot. Now that it had cooled of, black curls of char floated lazily on the surface of stained water in the sink, where the noodles hadn't burned to the bottom.

Returning to the door, where whathisname… Jim waited, she sheepishly apologized. "Surprised I… the alarm didn't go off."

"Yeah" he replied, and in her eyes he seemed to be getting closer and farther the longer she looked at him. Still had some odd expression on his face. "Are you okay?"

She wiped sweat from her brow and answered. "Just a little under the weather. Must've dozed off while cooking. Sorry."

"No problem." He said, continuing to stare. "Maybe you, uh should see a doctor?"

"I'm fine. Trust me, it'd probably get worse if I went to a waiting room and picked something up while I was there." She was fine. Would be fine. She didn't know he was being diplomatic, and avoided discussing the pink, raised rash crawling up her arms to her neck and running down to her bare feet, or the bloodshot eyes As she unconsciously itched her face, she felt the need to change the subject. "When's uh… your wife… um…"

"Rosa?"

"Rosa, yeah. Uh, when's she due?"

That did the trick. Jimmy talked all about it, how it was going to be a boy but they were definitely not going to call him Jimmy Junior, or how she had three months to go and how he had a promotion lined up at work, so they could move into a bigger place before then. Normally she'd be bored to tears, but it got her mind off of her illness. Come to think of it, she was starting to get hungry again.

Jim left, after wishing her well and asking her to turn down the TV. She waited until he was down the hall before trying to turn it down. The scratching continued, but it was… murmuring, almost. She was just hearing things. The TV hadn't really done much to drown it out, and now that the cooking show was over, and it was back to local news. The ticker on the bottom read something indecipherable, and they somehow managed to get time in for the weatherman. Was going to be cool in the morning, back to News Ten at Ten. Wait… it couldn't be ten o'clock already.

She turned her head towards the window. It was dark outside. Wait, she woke up at ten, no Brad called her at ten… it was the other ten now? Or the same ten the next day? It was light out when she was making the food, right? Then Brad called and she had to get to work… no, that wasn't right. Not right at all. She wiped the sweat off her hands on her jeans, rubbed her eyes. They were tired. It was probably bedtime. That's why that guy asked her to turn the T.V. down. Way too late, though how he could sleep with that whispering was beyond her. Walls were paper thin, if she could hear it, so could he.

But she was still hungry. Hadn't eaten anything… actually… she looked at the counter. The bread was still in place, but the plastic bag for the cold cuts… Capicola, right? Or was it ham? Probably something from a pig. Whatever, the plastic bag was on the floor, torn up and empty. Maybe she at it all? Still… she was hungry. But her eyes watered and drooped. She eventually settled on a compromise; she'd get out something to cook a big meal later. She'd go to bed, then wake up and eat. That was the plan.

She got up and lurched to the fridge, scratching at her face all the way. Took a package of frozen ground beef from the freezer and tossed it in the sink, it bounced off the pot. She picked it up and set it on the counter, spilling some dirty water. Whatever she'd clean it up later.

Turned the tap on warm; she wanted the meat to thaw fast. She was tired. Quick nap, then food. When the sink was full, she went back to the freezer. Did she want beef? Nah. Chicken. Bag of frozen vegetables. Needed to let it thaw. No, not chicken. Hamburger. Let that thaw. No, she had some bacon. After agonizing for an unjustifiably long time, she placed the food in the sink and walked back to bed.

After first dumping the blanket off the bed, it was way too hot out, she flopped facedown on her bed and shut her eyes. The murmuring didn't stop, it got louder. How could anyone sleep like this. Her fingers and feet twitched restlessly, her joints ached whether she moved them or not, and she began coughing into her mattress. The murmurer just didn't want to shut up. Goddamn, all of her was itching, and she scratched and something in the walls scratched and murmured.

Eventually she drifted off, still fidgeting and wincing when the murmurs got loud. When she woke up, her mouth, nose, and throat burned and was lying facedown in a rancid puddle on the floor. Dimly aware she must've fallen out of bed and vomited in her sleep. She laid there for a few minutes, still resting on her side, before it struck her to stumble to her feet and head to the bathroom to clean herself off.

Had she flipped on the light, she would've noticed the deep red color of the vomit, and the little black flecks and chunks of odd meat inside it.

She turned the bathroom light on, and immediately swore and slammed her eyes shut. It was too damn bright. Her head was throbbing now, and the light was blinding. Had she managed to have kept her eyes open, she would've noticed the bloodshot irises and discoloration of her retinas from brown to a dull red. Instead, she fumbled for the switch until she found it.

Even with the light off, it was only tolerable to open one eye in a half-squint. The shape in the mirror blurred and danced in the darkness, protruding in places she didn't and bent to one side. Her entire world had a reddish cast to it for some reason she couldn't quite figure out.

Nothing to worry about, of course. She just had the stomach flu.

After peeling off clothes that clung to her, sopping wet with sweat and other things, she stepped inside the tub and turned the water on. It made things worse. The itching in her skin turned into a stabbing, roiling pain. She ran a hand across her collarbone, feeling a patchwork of tiny bumps. Putting slight pressure on one, it popped, leaking something not entirely liquid. She dug her nails in and _scratched_.

She had clawed deep red furrows into her torso at the collarbone, her belly, and her forearms. Scratch, scratch, scratch. Shoulder blades. Thighs. She scratched her head, clumps of hair coming off and clogging the drain. It _hurt_. Everything. But opening up brought relief. _It's what's inside that counts_.

She collapsed in the tub, exhausted. It didn't hurt anymore, once she finished scratching those itches. She sat, half submerged in a baptismal font of water, purple-red blood, ragged patches of epidermis torn loose, and a deep amber-colored matter, not that she noticed the colors. Her eyes still ached and she kept them shut. She burned with fever and was wracked with a cough, but she felt better. That murmuring was louder still, but it was so melodic. She wondered why that chorus had bothered her so much earlier. She just wanted to sit and listen.

For a moment. Then came the hunger.

As if a switched was flipped, the tiredness was forgotten. The chorus was forgotten. All that mattered was food. She slithered out of the tub and hobbled to the kitchenette. Had she been lucid, she have noted the wastage from leaving the freezer door open and its contents arrayed in the sink, on the counter, on the floor; none of that could be refrozen. But she was so _hungry_.

She tore packages and ate and ate. No time to cook, just needed food. Lots of meat. Went through two pounds of hamburger and four chicken breasts before even touching the vegetables. But she needed food. Ate all of the food, along with some plastic and Styrofoam, and three teeth that had been dislodged in her scavenging.

When she was done, she was tired once again. But… the bed wasn't a good place for her. No. The chorus let her know that. She needed to be somewhere _nice_ and _safe_ and _dark_ and _high_.

She found herself climbing the stairs. Upwards and upwards, the chorus chanting words of encouragement to her. _Keep going_. She climbed up the stairs, stumbling into walls. Her vision wasn't what it used to be, but she did hear well. She had no clue what time it was, but she could hear snoring. She could hear small things skittering in the walls, not like the chorus, and they made her hungry. She heard a measured, repetitive keening in the distance far below, but couldn't remember their significance. There were so many things she couldn't remember.

Knew the way to the roof, sort of. She didn't remember how she knew. Some pain had returned, though she couldn't remember why every step she took hurt, or why several fingernails were missing (or that they were lying in the bathtub in a congealing pool of ichor).

There'd be time to figure that out when she was _safe_. She needed to get _high_ to get _safe_.

She was finally in open air. She breathed deep, but the air was too thin. It was too bright, the light assaulted her eyes. Her eye. She couldn't open the other one, and a tentative hand run over it felt a misshapen mass of spongy material she couldn't pull away covering it. Did she have two? She didn't think so. Didn't think she even needed the one.

But… She needed something. She struggled, had to remember. Had to. The chorus reminded her. _Somewhere nice, and safe, and dark_. She stumbled around, blindly, faltered. Her face and forearms met the gravel, wounds reopening. Another set of sirens… above her? Something light landed on her back, and began stab into her. She shifted, and the thing on her back started wailing again, and the weight left her back with a rhythmic flapping. She needed somewhere nice, and safe, and dark.

She rose, her weakened legs threatening to give way all the while. She staggered some more, before finding something. Maybe it was the wooden, cylindrical shape. Possibly, the word "Rosenwach" stenciled in large print on the side, although the blocky white letters didn't register with her and she couldn't remember its significance if they did. This was it, her safe spot. _Climb_.

She found a means of ascent, and she climbed. Her gnarled hands and open wounds didn't stop her. Knowing safety was near, that weariness that weakness had left her. The keening, fluttering things continued to harass her, but they would have to stop soon, she'd be safe.

At the top, she fumbled. Something was blocking her. Top of the container? Whatever it was, she _needed_ in. _Open_. She pounded on it, beat it until her hands were a bloody mess, hit it with her head until the skin on her forehead was raw and bleeding and the wood began to crack. She looped her fingers in the fissure and pulled. The skin and bones of her left hand gave way before the wood did, but she managed to rip apart some weathered and rotting wood. Made it.

She pried an opening just wide enough to fit her in, and forced herself down, slithered in through the crevice, tearing herself further on jagged and splintered would, and landing with a splash. It was dark and safe and wet. _Breathe_. She didn't even feel the tepid water filling her lungs or soaking into her wounds as she sank to the bottom of the tank.

She had stopped coughing. The itching and burning had gone away.

She was safe.

And as the virus continued to ravage her mind and body, she was in the dark

* * *

Author's Note: This fic was inspired in part by the books _The Hot Zone_ and _Demon in the Freezer_ by Richard Preston. Preston was very effective at going to lengths to discuss what infectees of Marburg, Ebola, Smallpox, and Anthrax would suffer. I've also been reading a lot of horror stuff, including stories involving the Cthulhu Mythos; the title of the chapter is a reference to _Delta Green: Tales from Failed Anatomies_ , a short story anthology written by Dennis Detwiller, head writer for the first game.

Also, I'd like to thank Ferric for reading through this and providing suggestions on how to express a progression and giving some extra symptoms.


	2. Capgras Syndrome

Disclaimer: Prototype is property of Activision Blizzard.

Summary: He made it off the island. That's supposed to be the end of it, right? Unfortunately, he's left with lingering doubts about who is who.

* * *

Television's tuned to C-SPAN, the Congressional Hearings on the Manhattan incident are still going on. Used car salesman looking Congressman with too-white teeth and slicked back hair looking to raise his stature by asking the "tough questions". I flip through the newspapers' classified section, looking for jobs. Maybe night watchman? No openings for rent-a-cops in my area. Custodial?

I hear keys fumbling in the lock, the knob turning. Keys fumbling again in the deadbolt. The door opens, light footsteps on the doormat. Jingling of keys, sound of a bag being set down. Cautious voice, not too loud. "Hello?"

"Hello."

Footsteps across a carpet. She stands at the doorway, not too close. She knows I don't like people getting too close. We exchange platitudes. Her day was fine, she mimics co-workers' voices in stories about their kids and their petty arguments. She has a talent for impressions, I can't remember if she always had that. She finishes, and asks the question "How was your day?"

Same as ever, Mel. Same as ever. She stands there for a bit, then walks over to the couch, leaving a space in the middle between us. She keeps her eyes forward. Her lower jaw works a bit. She drums the fingers of her right hand on her kneecap. Then she starts.

"Um…" Her voice is small and she's very careful about what she says. Like she doesn't know what to say. She doesn't want to offend. Or maybe it's something else. "I really think you should see someone."

I keep my eyes forward, shrug my shoulders, and grunt.

"…I know you… saw things." She shrinks into her side of the couch a little as I turn my head.

I saw things.

Understatement of the fucking year.

I saw, standing on the sidelines for a door breach, the guys who got to blow off the lock get swarmed by lumpen, misshapen things. By the time the shooting stopped, one of the Marines had their Kevlar vest peeled off and their abdomen hollowed out. The other was rolling on the ground, clutching at an empty, wet space that used to be his throat.

I saw buildings with fucking _tumors_ that split apart and, in a rainfall of black-red fluid that smelled like a combination of machine oil and rotting fruit, expelled things that were big and pink that stared at us through eyeless sockets. Things that tossed cars out of the way as they scrambled on top of tanks; beating at hatches and gouging deep into composite armor.

I saw something giant and fleshy burst out of the ground, through a Humvee. Had a front seat view of that; it lifted the vehicle in front of ours off the ground. Half of the gunner flopped to the ground as it pushed its way through the turret. It towered over us, looking like a tree made of meat, and then it's tip split apart like a beak and something black thrashed in the middle. The whole thing began to writhe with the Humvee still wrapped around it, eventually pitching the vehicle out of sight.

I saw a group of civilians who had managed to barricade themselves in the upper floors of an apartment building banging on the windows. Some were inaudibly mouthing "Help", some were grinning, pointing at us like heroes. Then the man in biohazard gear radioed in for a firebombing, and I saw that building burn.

I saw a Captain get shredded by assault rifle fire, all because somebody pointed at him and said "That's him!". He barely managed a "Wait" before, in reply, fifteen Marines shot him more times than I could count. Had they not been cremating everyone by that point, it would've been a closed casket funeral. Of course, nobody came up on charges for that. Nobody called it in. It was a clean shoot. Couldn't be too careful.

Maybe if it had been some place half a world away, waiting to get blown up driving down the roads or shot by a sniper, I'd take her up on the offer, see a shrink. But it wasn't Iraq. Wasn't Afghanistan. It was Manhattan. She knows that. I don't think she knows more than that. She just knows I went there and came back different. Sleep on the couch, flinch when she touches me, haven't touched her intentionally since I got home, always want to be out. She says she's scared for me.

Like I'm not.

After Manhattan, things are different. Between her and me. Between my folks and me. Between what little remained of Golf Company and me. Because I'm not sure it is her. Or my folks. Or other vets. It sure as shit wasn't Amar back in Manhattan.

We sit, she makes some idle chatter for a bit, I bite my tongue. I keep her in the corner of my eye. Eventually it gets unbearable and I get up, say I'll make dinner. She asks if I need a hand in the kitchen, I tell her no. Not having a job gave me as good an excuse as any to cook the meals. I don't want Melissa to cook. I don't trust her cooking.

If it is her.

* * *

Our Regiment were some of the first military personnel on Manhattan. Only people who got there faster than us were a Communications Battalion based in Brooklyn and those bastards from Fort Detrick. At the outset, our job was to help barricade the entrances and exits on and off the Island, before we were given a clear explanation of what we were barricading _in_ Manhattan.

Rumors were thrown out around. We got word that it was a bioterrorist incident. We spent the day first day watching trucks drive by, turning round traffic on the Brooklyn bridge, and counting the helicopters overhead. Sigler spent his time telling shitty jokes. Cruz was bitching; apparently he set himself up on one of those online stock trading things and he was going to be down several paychecks if the Stock Exchange was closed. Amar was stoic, man just rolled with whatever happened. Me? I wasn't worried the first day, really. Bioterrorism? Like that thing almost a decade ago, with the Anthrax Letters, that killed like three people? Nothing to worry about; certainly didn't need the goddamn Marines to cordon off all of Manhattan.

Shift change, played poker while the news was useless beyond "it was bioterrorism". Amar won; guy had a face of stone and the most insane luck. Next morning, we got a lengthier briefing, got the basics. There was a bioterror attack that left a huge number of people dead in Penn Station. Cruz elbowed me in the ribs for saying it was nothing. The man behind it was a disgruntled geneticist, one Doctor Alex Mercer. The Army man who was gave no introduction beyond his unit—U.S. Army First Biological Warfare Command—emphasized how important it was to maintain a strict quarantine, nothing on the Island except more personnel, and nothing off, period. A lot more Marines were inbound. We were to keep our eyes open for Mercer, or anything unusual. Report it immediately.

Heard more rumors. Apparently there were Blackhawks crashing left and right last night; two into the side of an office building, one lost power and smashed into the streets. Sigler muttered a bit of black comedy about the Army aviators. Amar claimed to have seen a picture of one of the wrecks posted online; taxi embedded in the cockpit. Whatever, the picture had been taken down by the time he showed us. I laughed; bastard tried to trick us, probably some shock image or dumb cat picture, and it got DMCA'd before he could spring it on us.

He swore it was real. Said it looked like the bird T-boned the car.

Wasn't falling for it.

The flight of Chinooks that passed overhead with artillery slung underneath didn't change my mind.

The first days, the Twenty-Fifth did a lot of legwork. Commandeer a warehouse here, set up barbed wire fences there. Laying the ground work for a long, long stay on the island. Then we started hearing things. Alex Mercer, public enemy number one, rigged his apartment to explode when the police went to search it. Several more helicopter crashes.

Then that thing happened at Gentek. I wasn't there; only heard the rumors, long after the fact, from a Corpsman who said was standing outside that building with some other Marines like rent-a-cops while the Army group went in and got massacred. Then something tore a gaping hole in the skyscraper and smashed their way through their perimeter. Then several somethings followed. They tore their way across the island to another base, which went up in a fuel explosion.

We got new orders. Patrol the streets like it was Baghdad. Report anything unusual. Above all else, engage hostiles with extreme prejudice. Cruz balked at the orders. Hostiles? In fucking Manhattan? Amar told him to shut up, something was definitely going on since we had all heard the explosion, but Sigler kept babbling. Was this gonna be some _Escape from New York_ shit?

As it turned out, he got the wrong Carpenter film.

* * *

I'm doing data entry now. It's alright. It's a couple dozen of us, working for a big bank. Transferring applicant's data from paper forms to their computers. Actually, I'm working for a temp agency, working for the bank. Pay's not that good, and I'm not that good at it; make a bunch of stupid typos. They want it done fast and correctly, and I only manage one of the two.

Still, I don't mind the work. It gets me out of the apartment, gives me something to talk about with Mel aside from the usual. Plus I have cash, even just a little, coming in again. The situation with Mel isn't tenable. Either she's going to get fed up and leave, or I'm going to get sick of being constantly on edge and do the same. So I'm fine here.

I don't really talk much to my coworkers. First of all, I don't really want to. Second, most of us our temps, there's a high turnover rate, so the faces are constantly changing. Every Monday there are less old faces or some new ones, and the bosses are shuffling us around the room all the time for some reason. I don't like it. Sometimes new people ask me about my background. Don't like that either. Job's fine though.

Girl who sits next to me is constantly wiping those alcohol sanitizing wipes on her keyboard. It's annoying. Do admit this place is run down a bit. Some of the more disused computers are coated in dust, lotta people just throw junk on the floor; food wrappers and stuff. Half the people here are slobs, other are obsessed with cleanliness, it's almost amusing watching them interact. Then the girl next to me starts complaining about germs and how this place is making her sick, and I think back to Manhattan and what sickness is. And I get angry at her complaining about a cold.

I get a little on edge here at times. I'm usually fine with crowds so I'm usually okay, but there's some times when I'm called to discuss something with my boss or something where I'm alone, and I start wondering. Have they changed since I last saw them? Does that even matter? My heart rate rises and palms get sweaty as I can't quite pay attention to what they're saying, and just nod until I'm excused.

Last week there was an issue with the sink in the breakroom; leaked water all over the floor. Breakroom's near the restrooms. Some jackass followed me right on my heels during lunch. No sense of personal space. Jackass picked the urinal next to mine, too. Bugged me. Maybe too much. Idiot was playing oblivious, but he had to have made that choice for some reason. Finished, zipped up, washed my hands; jackass did the same. Walked out the door; maybe a little too fast, ignored the "Wet Floor" sign, slipped, and bashed my nose against the counter.

That jackass had the nerve to go pale and turn away at the sight of blood. Guess in retrospect I should've realized that him freaking out meant he wasn't a problem. Issue was I was freaking out, shoved him on his ass when he tried to grab me and ask me how I was. Busted my nose good, it bled a lot I went to the boss and asked for the day off. When she saw me in a bloody shirt with an icepack against my face when she got home from work, Mel asked if she could help, then left the room when I said no. Don't think she expected a yes. The next day, I was called in to fill out an incident report, alone with the boss. Almost quit then and there; I didn't like being dragged off from work to talk about an injury. But no. It's not like Manhattan, they won't drag you off for "quarantine" if you're hurt; they're just going to have you do some paperwork.

That's something I have trouble with. I get nervous here, almost like I did in Manhattan. Get upset at things. Get angry at other things. But I just gotta keep it together. This isn't a military operation in a city full of monsters; it's data entry in a run-down office building.

Job's fine.

I'm fine.

* * *

Our first few patrols were boring, only excitement being when we were sent in to break up some looting. We heard rumors, then saw the news footage, then the Army fucks pulled us in for a briefing, before we ever came into direct combat with them. Officially, they were dubbed "walkers", but every one of us had seen a zombie flick. They were covered in tumors and were oddly misshappen, but they shambled and moaned just the same.

Sigler was actually upbeat; he was the kind of guy who fantasized about Z-Day. The day you got to barricade yourself in the place you dreamed about barricading yourself in ever since you saw the Mall in _Dawn of The Dead_. I was almost surprised he hadn't taken the liberty to try to find a chainsaw.

Cruz and I kept discussing how impossible it was; somehow fiction began to encroach on reality. You had the mad scientist release a virus, then you had the zombies, and the scary black ops guys trying to cover it up. We got a lot of rumors about the First Biological Warfare Command. They called themselves Blackwatch. This wasn't the first zombie outbreak they were dealing with. They were behind it. And dozens of very believable reports of blue-on-blue incidents with them.

Amar kept his opinions mostly to himself, as he usually did. Big guy didn't talk much, and things didn't seem to phase him. Just followed orders, kept his head down, eyes open, and mouth shut. Pulled his weight. And Sigler's, for that matter.

Eventually, we did get the call. We were given shoot to kill orders to deal with suspicious activity on the West Side. Air support was just a radio call away if we needed it. We mounted up and made the drive under the street lights. Cruz kept his eyes on the road, riding the bumper of the Humvee in front of ours. Sigler rambled on; shoot them in the head. Amar silently checked and rechecked his SAW. Only thing he said was "Got a problem?" when he noticed me fidgeting.

I kept my head on the swivel, looking out at city. Despite the quarantine, there were a lot of civilians just wandering around. Maybe that one was a drunk, stumbling confusedly, maybe he was something else. Was that a shadow in the alley or a figure? I tried to focus on the job.

I don't remember much about when we got there. A lot of Manhattan's a blur to me, just some things stuck with me more than the rest. We shot the place up, I know that. Sigler might have been crying, it's hard for me to think that much about it. The air support we were promised was called and delayed; apparently they had seen a priority target. I remember heading up the stairs, the wood spongy and rotting beneath us, when Cruz wheeled around and barreled into us his the way down, swearing.

Then our air support arrived on scene.

The building shook as five tons of helicopter tumbled into it, then fell to the ground. We pieced that together later. At that moment, inside, the world was coming apart at the seams and the Marines and other things inside were screaming their heads off. The building was on fire; I dunno if it was the residents, the crash, one of us, but masonry was falling, things were screaming, my lungs and eyes burned as we forced our way down to the ground floor. Somebody in front of me was yanked off, through the doorway of a room we had to have cleared before.

We made it out the front door and tromped down the stairs. I stopped close to the destroyed Helo, doubled over. Coughing and gasping for air. Amar grabbed me by my equipment harness and dragged me off. Cruz and Sigler were way ahead of us. Our sergeant was bringing up the rear. The streets were packed with dumbass civvies gawking at the show.

After putting some distance between ourselves and the burning wreckage of the Blackhawk, I took a glance at it. The bird was rolled onto its side, fragments of metal from the rotors strewn across the street. One of the soldiers from Detrick, those Blackwatch guys, was on top of the wreck, then dropped down into the passenger compartment. There were screams. Must've been trying to pull an injured comrade from the wreckage.

The soldier emerged from the wreckage, seemingly not bothered at all by the fires. Up until the point the bird exploded. Might've been fuel, or the rockets it had been carrying cooking off from the fire, or maybe it was shot from an angle I couldn't see. Whatever the reason, the thing exploded. We hit the dirt. Few civvies got splattered by shrapnel. The soldier pirouetted in the air, landing facedown, bounced, and tumbled onto his side.

We gawked like idiots for way too long. Sarge began calling it in, requesting more support, whatever. Sigler's ramblings were unintelligible. I swore a bunch. Cruz had walked over to some teenage dumbass taking photos with his phone, nabbed it, and pitched it into the fire. Amar was asking if everyone was okay. We fucking weren't. I think there were about a dozen of us left after the firefight, fire, and explosion.

I looked back at the wreckage and said "Christ."

The soldier we saw ragdolled away by the blast face rolled from his side to his back, got to a sitting position. Helmet was cracked, and the gasmask he was wearing was knocked askew; the visible part of his face resembling raw hamburger. He was a mess. Badly singed, he reached out a hand. By all rights he should've been dead. I sometimes laugh when I think back to that moment and remember that right then, I thought it was some kind of miracle.

At least, I thought that for a few seconds.

We rushed over to help. Amar got there first and knelt down. The wounded man clapped his hand down on my friend's forearm. "Okay, you're gonna be fine, just don't move. Sigler, I need you to stabilize his…"

A brief pause, then the screaming started.

Amar threw himself backwards and didn't move at all; couldn't break the grasp of the man who we were trying to save. We heard a snapping sound, as Amar's arm bent at a pronounced angle in the man's hand. I was too dumbstruck to do anything and something that looked a little bit like eels lashed around. Black thrashing things.

The Marine struck Amar in the face with his free hand and teeth and blood flew and the screaming cut off… Amar's screaming at least, somebody else was screaming, too. Maybe me.

Amar went limp, collapsed on top of the Marine he tried to help. His head lolled back at an unnatural angle; back far enough to stare at us with one good eye. I thought I saw something move in the gaping crater where his other had been, and then there was a fucking tornado of eels coiling around the two; which quickly folded into one one. At some point I started opening fire. Sarge did, Sigler did, everyone did.

It went straight through us. All I remember of it was a shifting mass of eels and metal; Sigler swore it was that guy from the briefings, Mercer. People and body parts were sent flying by the thing; we didn't find Sarge's head when it was over, and I swore more of us made it out of the building than there were bodies. It was a matter of seconds, and by then, only Me, Cruz, and Sigler were on our feet. Wright was missing a leg below the knee, and Pulaski was slumped against a wall, twitching. We tended to them as best we could, but when backup arrived, the men from Fort Detrick took custody of them and a few onlookers; one protesting they weren't sick, they were just vomiting from the stress. Never told what happened to them, but rumors weren't pleasant.

After hauling off the injured and ill, Blackwatch finished torching the building we were sent to investigate. As for the three of us, we got folded into half a platoon from Camp Lejeune and told to get back to patrol. During the night, Sigler explained to our driver what had happened, said some things I didn't remember, others I knew were false, but he got the gist of it down. The driver, a corporal with a dead, glassy look in his eyes, nodded. Same thing had happened to them two days earlier.

* * *

I'm at a bar. I do most of my drinking at home. Since Mel left I've been doing that a lot. I didn't want to be drunk around her. Don't really want to be drunk around other people, either. Being alone means I can afford to be slower and stupid.

Door opens and someone shouts my name. I wince as I heard that. Cruz, cleanshaven, tall, grinning, sits down next to me. He looks fine, put together like he never set foot on the island. Orders a beer and announces to the bartender "I'm paying for this guy."

I don't mind that. I don't think I'm gonna keep my job long, so I want to save whatever money I can. I've been getting comments on my attitude, showed up with a hangover a few times, and I haven't gotten better at typing. Back in the Corps, Cruz usually ended up buying; though usually because he always lost a bet or something. I grin at that. "You haven't changed at all."

"And you look like shit." Cruz said, cracking a bit of a smile. I think that's something more that Sigler would say.

"Haven't been keeping up on PT since I got out." I say with a shrug. I'm nowhere near the shape I was in last year. My personal grooming took a hit since I left the military, too. Haven't seen a barber since I got out. Don't like the thought of sitting in a chair while someone messes with my head. If anything, Cruz looks a bit bigger than he was when I last saw him. "You stayed in shape."

"I'm not out. Active duty now; gotta keep up." He says.

I'm genuinely surprised to hear that. "After Manhattan, how did the Corps rope you back in?"

"Not the Corps."

I stare at him, face twitching trying to puzzle out what he means. My eyes narrow, and I ask "The Army guys?"

"They lost a lot of people in Manhattan. Lot of them. They decided to poach from Marine vets who served there. Somebody figured they might be a bit better at the gig than Rangers who were in Paktika or wherever during the outbreak." He took a swig of beer. "Saw I was there since day one and saw some shit, and when my term was up, they made their sales pitch."

"How does that even work?" To my knowledge, switching from one branch to another was a complicated pain-in-the-ass in the first place, not even getting into the subject of crazy secret JSOC bastards.

"They… streamlined the paperwork." He shrugs, scratching at the scar he has running under his eye. "Big thing was just getting through their selection process. Physicals, training, psych evals. Can't say much, but… you should give it a shot."

There's something in his demeanor that said he didn't believe what he was saying. He had been eager to meet up with his old squadmate, and now he's giving the sales pitch to a half-in-the-bag typist. Well, a fake Cruz wouldn't have been trying to get me to sign up, so it's the real deal. Still, if he wants me to sign up, he can go fuck himself.

I finish my drink and order another. Move up from beer to whiskey. He raises a hand to pat me on the shoulder and I flinch. Sets it back on the bar. "I really do think you should give it a shot."

"No." He opens his mouth to say something, and I cut him off. "It's over, done."

"Right, they let us out after a monthlong quarantine in Queens, but Manhattan's still mostly on lockdown. The job's not done."

"Mine fucking is." I say. Too loudly, as the chatting of other people ceases and everyone's looking at us. Cruz drums his fingers across the table. I repeat it quieter. I'm fucking done with the Corps, done with Manhattan, done with Cruz.

"Look, I'm trying to do you a favor here. How's life been treating you these past few months?" He knows the answer; when he called me up for this little meetup, we had some forced small talk. I hadn't paid much attention to what he was up to, he was sorry to hear I broke it off with Mel and hated my job.

"Fine." He doesn't try to hide his eye rolling, and I don't give a fuck. I'm getting pissed off. "Why would you even sign with those psychopaths, anyways?"

"Six figure enlistment bonus, for one." He says, and that's not the case, I can tell. Something clicks. He spent a lot of down time working out, target practice. Always was willing to take point if we had to dismount and kick doors after that first time he was on the sidelines. Took the first and last shots on that Captain we gunned down.

"You like it." Fighting zombies. The cloak and dagger shit. Being able to frag a superior officer and get away with it. All of the above. Something else. I dunno what. But he likes it.

Whatever sense of camaraderie we had is gone. He gives an exasperated scowl. "The job isn't done."

Something tells me that was a line of horseshit he was fed, and just parrots it out whenever questioned. I think our business is done; he obviously hadn't expected me to be like I am, and I honestly hadn't been all that enthusiastic when it was just a social call; I had come for the free booze, not him. And definitely not the opportunity to go back to fucking Manhattan, or wherever the fuck they operate. I plant my hands on the bar and get up. "I honestly don't care."

He's on his feet before me. Looks at me, opens his mouth, closes it again. Reaches into his pocket, I tense. Relax when he just tosses a bunch of bills on the bar. "Should be enough. Look, I was fucking right there with you, man. I saw the same bullshit you did. Trust me, whatever's the right way to deal with it… this ain't it."

"Are you talking about me or you?" I ask, after he walks out the door. I look at the bills. Apparently the signing bonus was _very_ generous. Enough to keep me at the bar for a little bit more.

* * *

We lost three more Marines before the patrol was over. Either they were careless or somehow the zombies were outsmarting them. That was something I'd end up seeing a lot of during Manhattan; they braindead shambling things actually outmaneuvered us. When and Blackwatch would detain anyone injured by the infected, any surprise we got was lethal. Then when the more interesting things started to pop up, we had big problems.

Three hours after what happened with Amar, our night was over. We pulled up near a warehouse that had been converted into an outpost, planning to turn in for the night and let some other stupid assholes get eaten. As we milled about among the truckloads of fuel and high explosives, we threw around some idle chitchat, trying to break the ice with the guys from Lejeune. Unfortunately, the only common ground we had aside from the Corps was what we had seen on the island, and nobody felt the desire to discuss that in detail. So the conversation drifted to us starting trivial arguments.

It was mostly just bitching about the city; not the zombies, not the quarantine, just the fucking congested city full of slack-jawed idiots who failed to grasp the idea of staying inside while Hell was breaking loose outside. That was a safe topic. We didn't talk much about going home; honestly I don't think any of us expected to. I managed to start a blood feud by complaining about New York-style pizza and an apparent native of the City stepped up to defend the virtue of that paper thin bullshit. Then it turned into a debate on clam chowder between him and a Marine with a marked Boston accent. I noticed Sigler and Cruz were staring off. I tracked their gaze. Maybe twenty yards away, a Major in a Patrol Cap was glancing down between a clipboard and a Marine wildly gesturing towards a bunch of canvas-backed cargo trucks. "Am I seeing what I think I'm seeing?"

Fucking Amar was talking to the Major.

We look at one another. Then back to the guy who looked like Amar… no, it was fucking Amar, and the Major. Amar was talking, a lot, faster than I had seen him talk. Gestured at the trucks and began walking towards them. The Major lowered his clipboard and began following him. It struck me that something really bad was about to go down. I began walking after them; Sigler grabbed me by the shoulder.

"What the fuck are you doing?"

Honestly, I had no clue; why the fuck would I approach Amar… it couldn't be Amar… could it be something wearing Amar's skin? That was a rumor floating around. And if it was the thing that we fought, there wasn't much I could do. "What he fuck are we supposed to do?"

"The Army guys, Blackwatch. They're the experts on this." Cruz offered.

"What the fuck are they gonna do?" Sigler cut in before I could say the same thing. "They were the ones who've been losing helicopters left and right to that asshole, they can't…"

"Well, should we just leave him alone, and hope he's got good intentions?" A Lejeune Marine broke in. Might've been the New York pizza guy. We all glared at him, intruding on our conversation, but he stood his ground. "If it's the thing that hit our platoon two nights ago, he's not here for a friendly reason."

The quartet of us uneasily agreed to report this. Luckily, several of the Blackwatch soldiers were tooling around a Bradley, muttering to themselves. They tensed as we approached and one of them, presumably the leader, stepped forward. Despite the fact I couldn't see his eyes behind the biohazard gear he was wearing, I got the feeling he was staring at us in amused contempt. His tone dripped it when he asked "Need something?"

The Lejeune Marine stepped up. "Private Washington, sir…"

"Need something?" He repeated, letting a little frustration drip in. No time for introductions apparently.

"We saw a dead guy talking to one of the officers here. Over by those trucks." Washington shot back.

That got their attention. "Are you sure?"

"Saw him die tonight." I said.

That was apparently enough for them. They brushed past us, the squad leader muttering something into his radio. One of them, carrying a fucking anti-tank missile launcher, intentionally bumped into Washington. They were armed for bear.

The Major walked out from behind the trucks, alone. He checked the back of one of them, nodding approvingly. The Army guys fanned out, and from the far side of the base, I could see more walking over. We crept a little closer, as the Major took notice of all the attention he was getting. "Got a problem?"

"Where's the other Jarhead?"

"What other one?" The major said, running his hand along the back of his head.

"Those guys." The leader said, gesturing at us; and I felt my blood freeze at the Major turned his attention towards us. "Said you were with another Marine who died tonight."

"Didn't happen. Now, if you'll excuse me…"

At once, the Blackwatch guys leveled their weapons. "We have orders to detain anyone acting suspiciously."

"They're the ones who were seeing ghosts." The Major said, pointing at us. I could hear the rhythmic _thumping_ of Helicopter rotors in the distance.

"Down on the ground. Last warning."

With a sigh, the Major took a knee by the rear of the truck. Had his hands raised, then he placed them on the rear of the truck. And then the truck was flying away from us and the Major was in the center of the Blackwatch troops; landing feetfirst on top of their leader, who crumpled like a beer can. They opened fire, we dove for cover. One of the soldiers sailed clear over our heads, trailing blood from a gaping hole in his chest. There were explosions. We popped out of cover, taking shots, but whatever we did was negligible. At one point, it picked up a gun and returned fire; Washington caught half a mag in the neck and head.

We kept our heads down after that.

When the Blackhawks arrived, they began indiscriminately firing. We broke into a run as they rained down rockets and minigun fire from their stumpy wings. The outpost was a fuel and munitions dump; it was only a matter of time before the whole place went up. I caught one of the Helos impacting the ground in my peripheral vision, stopped and turned. Front axle from some vehicle embedded in the cockpit. I went back to running.

We cleared the gate; some Marines were rushing to the fight, others were hanging back, waiting for orders. I can't remember anyone telling us to get back in the fight, not that it would've worked at that point. Sure enough, soon there was a deafening blast, night turned to day as the fire burned. Chunks of concrete, steel, and burning meat rained down. I collapsed to a sitting position as the world spun. Some Marines were tending to the wounded, talking into their radios. Me, Sigler, and Cruz just gawked as the remaining Blackhawk orbited the destroyed warehouse.

Then some idiot had to ask, lough enough that I heard over the ringing in my ears, "Is it over?"

Might've been me.

Something rose out of the smoke, latching onto the helicopter. It veered erratically as the thing scrambled on it like a monkey, climbing to the top; near the spinning rotors. I saw a glint of metal, and it rose up into the blades' path. The helicopter plummeted as it's rotor blades met something significantly tougher, and fell into the fire.

Fragments of metal and fiberglass went everywhere. That's how Cruz got his scar; was grazed by a shard. Bastard's luck; should've either missed him completely or taken his head off. He immediately flailed; tore off his helmet and pitched it away. He pulled out a balaclava and pulled it on over his face; didn't want anyone to know he'd been injured and drag him off because 'better safe than sorry'. I managed to get through unscathed. Somebody caught a chunk the length of my arm through his torso.

Sigler also didn't catch shrapnel, but the thing bounded out of the ruined outpost, still smoldering, grabbed two people by the throats, and then dashed off like a fucking cheetah; turned a corner into an alley, and the screams faded quick. One of them was Sigler. Neither me nor Cruz went on to investigate, and when someone finally worked up the nerve; no trace of any of the three could be found.

So it was down to me and Cruz. Out of a platoon of forty-three men, squad of thirteen, two of us managed to make it off the island; it was weeks more on Manhattan, but I can't remember all that much, just isolated bits. Patrols that ended with things bursting out of the ground; civilians running around on fire, things being chewed up by machineguns and still coming. Patchwork units being consolidated into other ones as casualties mounted, can't remember anyone I served with really. Cruz telling me that it was us two against the whole damn island, and me wondering if it was Cruz.

But it ended; somehow we made it through. Another month quarantined in Queens with a bunch of other Marines who were grateful as Hell to be off the goddamn island. Then I was out. Lucky me, fucking Manhattan happened only slightly before the end of my term of service.

Guess surviving beats dying two weeks before getting out.

* * *

I sit in the tiny interrogation room, hands on the table. Wrists are still a little sore from the handcuffs. The fat fuck cop, sweating profusely, asks me why I did it while his partner is flipping through several photographs. His partner is tall, gangly. Like they were specifically partnered for comic relief. A regular Laurel and Hardy. Abbot and Costello. That weasel and the warthog from _The Lion King_.

I smirk at that thought. The weasel asks "What's so funny?"

Nothing, officer. Nothing at all.

Pumba asks me again "Why?"

I don't have much to say.

They throw down some photographs. Lot of red in them. The weasel, voice deep and flat, explains they have all the evidence they need to put me away for a long time. Blood on the clothes I was wearing. Found the murder weapon. Witnesses. I wonder if I should be upset; it wasn't a fake person. No eels, no metal. Just skin and bone and blood. I don't feel upset. Same as in Manhattan. I can't let my guard down.

"Just, had to be sure." I don't keep secrets, but I don't elaborate.

They look at one another, then the thin one leans over the table. In a faux-understanding tone, he says he figures it must've been difficult for me to adjust after Manhattan, and that if I need help…

I ask for a lawyer. They have to shut up if I ask for a lawyer. I'm not interested in talking anymore.

The thin cop shrugs, gets up. Stretches a little. The fat one doesn't. He just keeps a slight scowl on his face, hands clasped on the table. The thin one exits the room. "Where's he going?"

"Ask for a lawyer, the questioning's gotta end." The warthog says. He scratches his greasy, reddish forehead.

"Yeah, I get that. Where's he going and why aren't you following him?"

"He's going to get in touch with the Public Defender… unless you have someone to call?" I shake my head. "I'm staying in with you. Can't ask questions, but I'm not leaving you alone."

I'd really like to be alone. I twitch a bit; I can feel my heart rate start to rise. Officer Jackass looks at me quizzically "Do you have a problem?"

No officer, I don't have a problem sitting alone with you here. Keep my poker face. I wonder if anyone's on the other side of the one-way glass. Not that they could do anything if the officer's a fake person. He doesn't talk; I think if I say I'll talk, the other guy'll come back. I ask him that. Apparently, state law doesn't work like that; once you ask for an attorney, you can't waive that right except with the attorney sitting next to you.

He's toying with me. Pretending he doesn't know I'm freaking out here. I want to get out of here, or I want him to get out of here. Now. He can't be that oblivious. Gotta be watching me squirm. I take a deep breath.

We wait.

* * *

Author's Note: I wanted to do a little experimenting with first-person narration for this fic. Prototype's always struck me as a pretty good horror setting, but the effect's a bit lost when we see it through the eyes of one of the horrors. I guess this one's heavily influenced by Lovecraft and the later people who write in the Cthulhu Mythos; being a story about how seeing something awful and unnatural can ruin a person even if they escape unscathed.

I'd like to thank Ferric and Tayta Malikai for beta reading this and providing suggestions on bulking up a few bits.


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